


Obsession and Possession

by Raul_Saiph



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27286282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raul_Saiph/pseuds/Raul_Saiph
Summary: War never changes, regardless of what anyone wants.
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

There would be no plans. Bloodshed was the order of the day, and he would have his fill of it from the warehouse one row down. Angron did not know, nor did he care to know, what monsters would need with a warehouse. Maybe a stockpile, or a headquarters. Headquarters for what though?

_Stop._

He felt a slight pressure, centered between his muscular shoulders, dissipate along with the curiosity. There was no place for plans today. Wisdom would be wise to leave him be.

Angron took a deep breath, ran a hand through his brown curls, released the air smoothly, and took off in a sprint. His father would have his due.

The wooded door of the warehouse blew inward under the force of his kick, showering the concrete floor with splinters. Their fear was intoxicating. Twenty monsters, no cyclopes, no armor, no ranged weapons. A golden, one-handed ax materialized in his right hand. The fear spiked.

“M- Me- Mercy,” a small, green monster stammered.

Angron’s response was simple. “For Ares.”

He was upon them in seconds, cleaving scales and flesh with equal ease. One dog-fish monster raised a sword, its hands shaking violently. He slashed the dog-thing across the gut, spilling pale ropes onto the ground. The thing was staring at them when he drove his ax into its head. He cleaved a green, fanged monstrosity from its skull to groin and took the arm off at the bicep of a humanoid. Blood splashed him as he worked, and he grew faster from it. Angron backhanded a fire-haired female and drove his ax down through her clavicle, shattering ribs. He brought his ax-arm back, maximizing the force of his next swing. 

Someone grabbed the handle of his weapon, just below the head. Angron thrusted his elbow back, obliterating the nose. He lunged as he pivoted to face the humanoid, slashing his ax across its chest. The man-thing spun with the force of the blow, slapping face-first against the hard floor. Angron mounted his back, grabbed a hand full of its denim shirt for grounding, and slammed his ax into the back of its head. He ripped the ax out, splattering his front in skull fragments, brains, and gold... blood?

Angron blinked and took a deep breath. All the monsters were dead. He looked at the golden blood oozing out of the fissure in the man’s scalp Oh. _Oh_.

“Oh,” he murmured.

.

.

.

Well, in for a penny.

Angron brought his ax down on the god’s head twice more before the body burst into golden dust. Which was strange. Monsters, as ancient as the gods, did not burst; they rotted like everything else. Were these golden flecks some form of second life, like with the nymphs and satyrs and their plants? Could the moots be a part of a kind of regeneration?

The dust evaporated quickly, revealing a golden circlet where the body had been. Angron snatched it off the ground and it expanded as if to sit comfortably on his head. With a thought, his ax shattered into shards of light. The demigod turned to take in the carnage, saw that it was good, and left the voiding corpses where they lay.

* * *

Angron twirled the golden circlet around a finger, the light of his campfire making it glitter brightly. Midnight was close at hand and he was no closer to an answer for the enigma of the crown; there were too many possibilities. It could be a symbol of power, a marker of rank, or even a spoil of a sort. Monsters did not spawn items, but monsters did not burst into dust either.

He stopped spinning the circlet and looked into the fire. Regardless of what it might be, it was evidence. So, to Violence or Wisdom?

...Which had brought it into his possession?

“To Ares,” Angron intoned.

He tossed the crown into the fire. The flames consumed it quickly and the fire’s color shifted from orange to blood red. Argon smiled.

“That was unwise of you,” a feminine voice said tersely.

Angron’s head swiveled to the left, losing the smile with the movement. Wisdom stood just outside of his peripheral vision, but close enough to touch him. She was in blue jeans and a white blouse this time. Her brown hair, pulled back as it was into such a severe ponytail, added to the frigidity of her glaring grey gaze.

Angron offered her a flat stare, and responded, “Was there wisdom in my elbow, or the swing of my ax?”

Wisdom’s nostrils flared, but she did little else. “There could have been.”

“But there was no need for wisdom in it.”

Wisdom scowled. “You think I’m being intrusive.”

“I think.” Angron turned his brawny body away from the fire to face her fully. “That you never visit without a request.”

The two stared in silence, seafoam green challenging glowing grey. Wisdom looked away. Angron was mindful not to smile; to gloat was to invite peril.

She chose to look at the fire instead, her scowl deepening.

“I need you,” she said, voice smooth as silk. And how Angron wished she had meant it how she implied, but he was no fool. When he did not react, she turned that baleful gaze on him.

“...One of my children travels in poor company,” she confessed. “By being near them she is in danger. I want you to hurry them along to the camp.”

Angron looked away from her, dejected. He searched the fire for some comfort his father could not provide. “I’ll admit it,” he whispered. “I had hoped you’d prove me wrong.”

He felt her presence move a bit closer, but that was all. Was it pride that kept her away? Had he not made his intentions clear a thousand times? Angron sighed. “What do I stand to gain?”

“What do you want?”

The demigod shifted, gazing silently up into a face as beautiful as the universe was vast. Wisdom would not meet his eyes. If he could just catch her eyes, she would give in. “...A favor, to be claimed at a later date,” he finally said.

Wisdom did not hesitate. “Done.”

Angron rose, standing over her at six foot-five to her six-one. He took a half-step closer, placing himself deep in her personal space. Wisdom did not warn him off; she kept her eyes on his feet.

“I may find my death tomorrow,” he began. “Will you send me to it like this?”

Wisdom placed a warm hand over his heart, fingers splayed. Fatigue seeped into every fiber of Angron. He pitched forward, his head landing on her collar bone. He turned his head into her neck as he slipped away into oblivion.

* * *

He awoke under the thread-bare sheets of a stiff bed in a motel room, well-rested and nude. Wisdom must have been responsible for the restorative sleep. The snoring that filled the room was loud, nasally, and would have kept him up the entire night.

Angron slid his feet over the side of the bed, his back to the snoring. A pair of black running shoes and a set of clothes sat on top of a black backpack. He pulled on the clothes: black joggers and a loose-fitting, grey long sleeve. The shirt had the Owl of Athens done in white on the front. He found socks stuffed in one shoe and a note in the other.

“The clothes and shoes are self-cleaning and repairing. I cannot foresee you ever needing to replace them. - W”

Angron chuckled, a low rumbling like distant thunder. She would claim him like the conquistadors with their flags claimed the new world. Wisdom would have to do better than a shirt; he was not a man to be placated by gifts.

A gasp pulled him back into the moment. He turned his head. The gasper was a bony little girl with a toothbrush in her mouth: tan skin, callouses on the right hand, smooth left, grey eyes, blonde hair. Her face reminded him strongly of Wisdom.

Angron smiled warmly at her. “You must be Athena’s kid,” he said. “Your mom sent me to help you.”

“Uh, uh, Thalia?” she mumbled.

There was a grumble from the bed, but no movement. Angron raised an eyebrow and the little thing flushed in embarrassment.

“Thalia!” Wisdom’s daughter shouted.

An older girl sat up in the bed, her hair a ball of black spikes and split ends.

“Wha?” the girl asked, still drowsy.

“Hello,” Angron said in a conversational tone.

Thalia’s head whipped towards him and she recoiled, hard, tumbling off the bed.

_How had these children survived this long?_

The other two in the bed, a scrawny boy and a satyr, were rudely awakened by her fall but slow to gain awareness. When the satyr got his bearings, he started bleating.

Angron stood then, boredom plain on his face. “If you all are quite done,” he grumbled.

They grew silent, staring up at him apprehensively. Thalia pointed a pale finger at his chest. “Is that owl on drugs?”

That broke the spell on the other three: The satyr fell out of the bed, hooves tangled in the sheets, the scrawny boy fumbled for something underneath his pillow, and Wisdom’s daughter palmed a bronze dagger in her right hand.

The son of Violence smiled at her again, cooing, “That’s adorable.”

And her little glare made it even more so, but there was a time and a place. Angron clapped his hands together, the sound clear and sharp, and the children froze.

“I can see that you all are afraid and confused.” Angron placed his hands in the pockets of his pants. “I’m more than willing to answer what questions I can.”

The older children glanced at the daughter of Athena, but the girl did not need prompting. “What’s my mom like?”

An honest answer from him would not do; Athena had killed people for less. At the same time, he could not find it within himself to tell her a flat out lie.

“Intelligent, prideful, a bit egotistical.” Thunder boomed overhead, but the son of Ares paid it little heed.

The satyr raised a hand like he was in school and mumbled, “Who are you- I mean, would you tell us your identity, uh, my lord?”

Angron glowered at him and the nature spirit started shaking. “I’m not a god, satyr. I am Angron, the first horseman, harbinger of war, son of Ares.” Thunder, louder than the previous spell, boomed overhead. Angron rolled his eyes. His father was obsessed with dramatics.

The scrawny boy finally found his voice, and asked, “So, you’re a demigod, like us? Well, most of us.”

Angron nodded and they relaxed. Which was good for him, but it showed they were entirely too trusting. To be fair though, he had killed enough hostile demigods over the years to know better.

Thalia’s gaze was fixated on his face, her neck turning red. “You’ve got to be the oldest demigod I’ve ever seen,” she said bluntly.

Angron met her eyes evenly. “How old do you think I am?”

Thalia blinked. “Um, twenty-something?”

He supposed that was a fair assumption. The son of war was large, muscular, and lacking any signs of adolescence.

“I’m sixteen,” he said, voice carrying a hint of humor.

Thalia’s mouth opened and closed repeatedly without a sound leaving her. Annabeth looked from the scrawny boy to Angron and back again. Said boy got out of the bed, his chest slightly puffed out. “I’m Luke, son of Hermès,” he said, voice cracking on his father’s name.

The others took that as their cue to give their introductions.

“Thalia, daughter of Zeus.”

“Grover, just Grover,” the satyr said, bowing his head.

“Annabeth,” the little blonde said, raising her chin. “And you already know my mother.”

“I do. What city and state are we in?”

Luke was quick to respond, “Youngstown, Ohio.”

The son of Ares nodded. “Then we just need to catch a plane.” His charges cringed and looked at Thalia. Angron frowned at the daughter of Zeus, his green eyes penning her where she stood. “What’s wrong with planes?”

“I uh, I have a fear of heights.”

She could not look him in the eyes after she said that. Angron squatted down, checked the backpack, considered his options, and made his decision. He stood up, slinging the backpack over a shoulder.

“That’s fine,” Angron said. “We can catch a train to New York. Get dressed, we leave when you guys are packed.”

Mercifully, they did not take long. The group seemed to have rapid packing down to a science. He ushered them out the door into the relatively empty parking lot. Thalia looked from one car to the next, and asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have a better way to get to the station than walking or by bus?”

Angron fished in his pocket for his key fob, enchanted to always find its way to him, and hit the “unlock” button. A beep sounded from all directions, spooking the little ones. A white 2006 Pontiac G6 materialized in front of the group, the engine already running.

Thalia marveled at the four-door. “That’s so _cool_.”

Angron glanced down at her freckled face. “It’s usually a 911 Porsche, but that won’t fit all of you. By the way, here.” He dropped a pill into her hand. “Swallow that. The car flies and I don’t want you panicking if I have to take us in the air.”

Thalia paled and swallow the pill quickly. Angron kept his amusement off his face.

_Too trusting by half._

* * *

The sea of clouds outside the plane window made for a bewitching view; so free form and unrestrained. What would life be like as a cloud spirit? Did they cry when their parent cloud came undone? Perhaps it served as the first taste of the cost of freedom. But it was their existence, and they had no choice in it. Would they give up their boundless lives for permanence? Would he himself give up stability for the potential offered by an unfettered existence? That flight attendants “personal recipe” was more potent than Angron had initially believed; inebriation always turned him philosophic.

“I still can’t believe you drugged her.”

Angron looked away from the clouds and met Grover’s glare.

“We’re safe up here,” the demigod assured. “The only danger to us is Thalia, so, I gave her the pill.”

“You never intended to go by train. Was your car being able to fly a lie too?”

The secret bartender-flight attendant came by with his food and his fourth glass of her concoction. Angron thanked her with a wink and a fifty-dollar bill. He was more than a little pleased to her giggle as she left. “Yeah,” the demigod admitted. “But I never have to stop for gas, which is better than being able to fly.”

Grover allowed him to eat in silence, but not drink. “Alcohol isn’t allowed at camp,” he snapped.

“Good, children have no business drinking.”

Angron felt the satyr’s indignation as he drank from his glass. Hypocrisy was the lesser-known trait of the philosophically inclined.

“...That means you’ll be left dry.”

The demigod bobbed his head. “If I stayed, satyr, if I stayed.”

“Why wouldn’t you? You’re a demigod, it’s the safest place for you.”

Angron considered his drink in silence: orange coloration, mango flavored, and no burn going down. Either he was drunk, or there was a great deal of sugar in this. He took a sip of it before he answered, “I thrive off of bloodshed and the subjugation of my foes. I am a conqueror, Grover, and there is no place for a person like that at your camp. “

“Everyone needs a place to call home,” the satyr pressed.

Angron relaxed into his seat and watched the clouds. Not even their beauty could dampen the pain in his chest.

_To hell with Wisdom._

“I had something like that, or at least I thought I did.” He imbibed deeply from his tropical drink. “I suppose it’s time I found a new place.”

Turbulence rocked the plane violently. People screamed, Grover bleated, and attendants made to calm the passengers, but Angron did not react, keeping his gaze out the window. The turbulence was over as suddenly as it came.

The satyr was hyperventilating. “Y-You said it was safe!”

“It is.”

“Then what was _that_!”

“My old place was acting _unwisely_ ,” he said. “She could have awoken Thalia and doomed us all.”

Green met grey. Wisdom was standing, in full battle regalia, on the wing of the plane like the wind was little more than a breeze. Even with the distance between them, Angron could see wrath turning her face harsh. Her chest was heaving, a golden spear appearing in her left hand, shattering into shards of light, and then reappearing. Over and over, the spear came and went as the seconds turned into minutes.

Would she have struck him down if he had been alone? Let her fury destroy the very thing she wished to keep for herself?

_Yes._

Because Angron did think she was that selfish. She would run him through with her spear before she ever allowed him to run someone else through with his own. Not that she had ever been stabbed by his spear. Angron smiled at her and she bared her teeth. Distantly, he heard the satyr calm his breathing. “Who’s she?” he whispered.

Angron turned away from the goddess then, but Grover was staring into the headrest of the chair in front of him, his face pale. “No one you need to worry about, for the moment at least.” Angron looked back out the window; Wisdom had disappeared. “She won’t hinder our trip to the camp.”

“Go-Good.”

The rest of the flight was uneventful, the disembarking long, the baggage-claim boring, and the ride out of the city proper silent.

“You didn’t have to lie to me,” Thalia grumbled.

Angron looked at her in the rearview mirror, her face still had red marks from Luke’s shoulder and her eyes were half-lidded, and focused back on driving. They were riding over the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge now, the bay below it grey and choppy. “So, if I had told you the truth,” he said. “you would have still taken the pill?”

Thalia gave no response; her silence was answer enough.

“Where’d you get it from anyway?” Annabeth inquired from the backseat. She was sandwiched between Thalia and Luke.

Angron smirked, “It was in the backpack your mom gave me.” A collection of gasps sounded off. It amused him greatly.

Luke spoke in disbelief, “Athena told you to do that?”

“No, but she provided me multiple options on how to accomplish my mission.”

Luke grew hesitant. “...What else was in that backpack?” he asked.

“Food, water, rope, nectar, ambrosia, and three more pills.”

Grover, sitting shotgun, stared at Angron with wide eyes. “...You wouldn’t have really tied us up, right?”

Angron did not take his eyes off the lanes. “You’d have been asleep for most of your time tied up, I assure you.”

The feeling of impending doom suddenly seized Angron, but it failed to cloud his mind. He slammed on the gas, weaving past honking cars for the home stretch off the bridge.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down!” Grover yelled. “What’s wrong?”

“I’d rather find out once we’re off this damn bridge!” he growled back.

Annabeth whispered, “Look, the water...”

A blue Plymouth Barracuda had taken exception to Angron’s driving and kept weaving to stay in front of them, playing on its breaks.

He did _not_ have time for this. 

Angron hit the gas, clipped the muscle car, and sent it turning sharply to the side, its tires screeching. He did not look back, but he heard it plow through the railing and plunge towards the water. The crash of the car hitting the bay came entirely too soon after.

Angron cursed, but they made it off the bridge seconds later. He took his foot off the gas and finally looked in the rearview mirror. A wave, as tall as the topmost part of the bridge, washed over it. The sound of crashing water, groaning metal and the screams of his charges filled his ears in an all-consuming cacophony. After the wave had passed, the demigods could see that the bridge was still intact and devoid of cars.

They drove the rest of the way to the camp in dreadful silence. When Grover pointed to a hill they needed to go over, Angron did not stop the car. He drove into the grass and up the incline of the hill; his car’s tires and engine shifting for the change in terrain.

He did not stop the car until they were right outside the big house. Angron relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, the indentations left by his fingers clear to see and leaned back into his seat. Demigods in orange shirts were gathering around the car in a wide circle.

Angron closed his eyes, took a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair, and let the air out in an explosive sigh. It was not every day that Poseidon tried to murder him; his heart was still hammering against his ribs.

“You know what Grover,” the son of Ares muttered. The satyr, stiff as a board, slowly turned toward Angron. “I think I’ll stay for a bit after all.”


	2. Chapter 2

On the porch of the big house, Angron sat in a rocking chair across from Dionysus, the god gesturing lewdly with his arms for added effect for his story.

“After that,” Dionysus sang. “I took his city _and_ his daughter. Left him a little heir to ra-”

“You can’t leave!” Thalia screamed.

Angron and the god frowned, both turning to regard her. Thalia’s lips were pressed into a thin line and a foot was tapping the ground relentlessly.

Dionysus glared at her. “Interrupting a god can be fatal, Thadius.”

“Thalia!” she thundered.

“I apologize on her behalf, Lord Dionysus,” Angron said. “I’ll sort this out.”

He stood and Dionysus huffed. The wine god had little love for his charges at the best of times, and it seemed to be mutual. Angron stepped off the porch and walked towards the beach, sure that Thalia would follow.

“You _can’t_ leave!” she repeated, louder this time.

He rolled his eyes. She just could not wait until they were at the beach for a good view, few ears, and no Athena children around to snitch about his plans to their mother. Maybe that was why she was being so loud about it. “Why not?” he questioned.

“Annabeth would be sad.”

Angron scoffed. That little thing was the worst of the snitches.

Thalia changed tactics. “Who’ll teach weapon skills?”

“Chiron, Luke is a promising candidate, or you could bargain with the Rich One for a work release permit for Achilles. Hector of Troy comes with my personal recommendation. You’ll probably have an easier time getting him from my-“

“Stop!”

And they did. They were at the tree line where the beach met the wild. Angron leaned against a tree, the bark feeling pleasantly rough through his long sleeve. Thalia looked drained, all the previous anger bleeding out of her. Angron saw the dark bags under her eyes and wondered how long it had been since she had a full night's sleep.

“Why do you have to leave?” she muttered.

The son of Ares shrugged, and said, “I don’t _have_ to leave, I want to leave.”

A green hand melted from the tree, snaking around his waist and up his shirt. Thalia’s eyes went from the hand fondling his abs to his eyes and back, waiting.

If she was hoping he would stop the nymph, she would be disappointed. There was a distinct lack of grown, mortal women within the camp. So, nymphs would have to do. Angron smirked when the spirit’s hand slipped down his waistband and wrapped around his length. Thalia looked prepared to commit herbicide.

“You stop her, or I _will_ ,” she warned.

Angron placed a hand on the nymph's arm, caressing it gently. The hand squeezed his member and pulled away.

“You’re disgusting,” Thalia sneered. “You don’t even know her!”

Angron was not about to discuss his sex life with her, or anyone else. Well, except Dionysus, but it was different with the wine god. That god’s story was the best possible outcome for a demigod like Angron. He supposed that made Dionysus his role model. As far as gods went... he could have chosen worst.

The matter of the temperamental child of Zeus in front of him took precedence over his choice in role models. “How about I promise to visit every other month for a week or two?” he bargained.

The rage left her then, a fragile hope taking its place. “You mean that?”

_No._

Angron nodded. “On the condition that you tell me how you found out.”

“...Annabeth,” Thalia revealed, a guilty look on her face. “She said you scrap off more food than usual the nights before you plan to leave.”

Angron worked his jaw back and forth. He refused to show how impressed he was by the little terror’s deduction skills. He would sacrifice food to Hermès for an assist if need be and to Hades to grease the wheels in case Athena _literally_ caught him with his pants down.

At least now he knew how Wisdom managed to be at the boundary for every one of his attempts to leave. She never said a word when they met, though. The goddess would just stand there, begging him with her eyes to step across that invisible border and experience her fury. He grunted. “Alright, you can go now.”

Thalia did not move an inch, glaring at him like he was some kind of criminal. Enough was enough, though. Angron glared back and Thalia flinched.

“You can leave, or you can _watch_ , choose.”

The green hand came back, going straight for his manhood. The nymph stroked him slowly, but Angron kept his glare on Thalia. He saw tears gather in the corners of her eyes, but tears would not work on him. She took off before the first one fell.

It was for the best; the son of Violence had zero intentions of settling down. Well, that was not entirely true, but Wisdom would rather keep him in a display case for all eternity than be in a relationship with him.

Angron leaned away from the tree and the nymph came free with him, flush against his back. He pulled her hand out of his pants and turned look at her: green eyes, purple hair, lean, and a full head shorter than him. He kept the frown from his face and thoughts of Wisdom at bay with two handfuls of the nymph’s backside. The demigod lifted her and she wrapped her slim legs around his waist.

* * *

Angron gave his father a fourth of his steak that night. It burned quickly, produced a bit of smoke. He did not stick around to figure out what it smelled like this time. The demigod made his way over to Wisdom’s table, his target in the middle of talking with one of the other children. “Annabeth,” he said. “Do you have a moment?”

The little girl turned in her seat to stare up at him. So did her siblings. A dozen sets of identical grey eyes fixated on his face. Angron wondered if, in a different life, he would have had a little one sitting here with them.

“Did my mom want you to tell me something?” Annabeth asked.

He almost ruined his plan by glaring. “You do understand I have a life _and mind_ of my own, right?”

At least she looked embarrassed. He went to a knee so that they were eye-to-eye; children loved that kind of thing. “Hey, don’t worry about it,” he soothed. “I came over here because I, _by no push from your mother_ , wanted to offer you some one-on-one training.”

Her little eyebrows shot high. Annabeth almost fell out of her seat trying to wrap her arms around his neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she cheered.

Angron smiled, patting her back gently. “Two days from now, after lunch, the arena, don’t be late.”

“I won’t!”

Angron left the table as her siblings gave her the fifth degree over ‘blatant favoritism by mom.’ He blocked it out, took his seat next to Dionysus, and ate his food.

“I didn’t take you for the charitable type,” the god accused.

The demigod finished chewing and swallowed before he responded. “You said I should interact with the campers more. Annabeth’s a camper.”

Dionysus scoffed. They both knew he had not been referring to her or _her_ siblings. “They won’t stop sulking,” the god began. “I keep receiving complaints of them barely interacting with other campers, sleeping in past breakfast, picking fights over the slightest offense, the list goes on.”

“I don’t like them,” Angron said frankly. “I doubt that’s an uncommon opinion in this camp.”

Dionysus raised a finger. “But _your_ opinion is the only one they care about, and you made your distaste known to their faces.”

“It was that or deal with them clinging to me.”

Dionysus rolled his eyes. “You’re their hero.”

“I’m hardly a good role model, my lord.”

“That just means you’re a _Greek_ hero.”

They lapsed into silence after that. Angron took the time to eat his food. He truly did find his siblings repugnant, all bluster and loud shouting. They put no real thought into their actions, nor did they consider the consequences of them. So, being the man that he was, he told them exactly that to their faces, so they understood where everything stood. Angron did not care if they took it to heart. If it had been up to him, they would have never met him. Thinking of which, the demigod turned to the wine god. “I need a favor, my lord,” he said.

Dionysus smiled, it was far too wide and showed too many teeth. “A favor? Now you sound like a camper.”

Angron frowned and continued, “I’m leaving here tomorrow.” Now Dionysus frowned, leaning back into his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “And I’d appreciate it if I was _‘in quarantine’_ for some sickness or another for a few days.”

The wine god looked out over the campers as he spoke. “I know that you are in _disfavor_ with my sister, Angron. This camp is the safest place for you, it’s neutral ground.”

“I don’t care about being safe, my lord. I’m trying to live my life.”

The god’s jaw tightened, and he turned a glare on him. Angron met those cauldrons of blackish-purple fire evenly; he would not be intimidated into submission.

“... Seven days,” Dionysus finally said. “No more than that.”

Angron smiled. A nymph stepped in close to him, running a hand down his bicep as she bent forward to take his plate in hand. He wrapped one of his own around her thigh, just above her knee, turned to regard her, and dragged the hand up slowly. In seconds, his hand had disappeared up her mid-thigh long dress. She paused, her fingers wrapped tightly around the empty plate, waiting. Angron took his hand off just shy of her snatch. The nymph whined low in her throat. She roughly yanked the plate off the table, leaving his side in quick strides. He turned back to look at the god and found him staring, approval brimming in his eyes.

“I’ll burn down a winery in sacrifice to you soon,” Angron promised.

Dionysus huffed a laugh and said, “Where will you go?”

“Las Vegas. She hates it with a passion, and I made sure to voice the same opinion to her on a few occasions.”

Dionysus unfolded his arms, his black eyebrows scrunching together. “How long have you been planning this?”

Angron chuckled, turned to face the packed dining hall, and took a sip from his cup. “My current circumstances have always been a possibility in my mind,” he admitted. “The price of having a god’s attention.”

“...I think you have more than just her attention.”

Angron blinked and turned to the god. He could not possibly be suggesting he had taken her virginity. The look on the wine god’s face suggested that he did. “She’s still a maiden.”

“Be careful, Angron,” the god demanded.

Angron nodded, stood, and left for the Big House. The stares of his siblings followed him out. They really were never supposed to meet.

* * *

He deposited the clothes gifted to him by Wisdom in a pile on his bed. Knowing her as he did, they likely had some form of divide tracker in them. In their place, he wore white shoes, blue jeans, and a purple shirt, all of it courtesy of Dionysus.

It was well before dawn as he sprinted through the woods. A harpy flew overhead, took a look at him, and went back the way she came. He’d have to burn down two wineries for the mad god. Once he made it to the road, he clicked his key fob and a white 1979 Porsche 911 materialized, roaring. Angron grinned. He put distance between him and the camp, his odometer over a hundred the entire time to New York.

He was on a plane, flying first class to Las Vegas when dawn finally came. There was no secret bartender amongst the attendants on this flight, unfortunately. Angron ordered food and sat in silence.

No matter how fervently Wisdom searched, the son of Ares would get five, maybe seven, years of freedom before she found him. Dionysus had given him seven days and he only planned to be in Las Vegas for two. He supposed he could stay longer. The cash repository he had in the desert would keep well for an extra day. _Or_ he could walk into the Lotus and spend a century or three in bliss. By that point, Angron hoped she would be too happy from finding him alive to remember what he’d said on that plane to New York.

The demigod nodded to himself. The Lotus it was. If he never found his way out, well, there were worse ways to spend eternity. A blue-eyed attendant brought his food. He ate quietly and watched the clouds after.

Angron had brought nothing but the clothes on his back to Las Vegas. Which made his trip from the plane to the exit a straight shot. He stepped out into the afternoon heat feeling more than a little happy. The Lotus was a legendary experience if his father was to be believed.

“I want you to know,” a familiar voice said, directly behind Angron.

The demigod spun on his heel. Wisdom was right there: faded grey shirt, blue jeans, blond hair, grey eyes, and a frown on her face.

“That Annabeth has been praying to me since eight in the morning for your swift recovery.”

The frown morphed into something _ugly_. He took two steps back, and she took three forwards.

“Imagine my surprise when I looked in your room and found it empty,” she continued. “Oh, Dionysus held out for you for longer than I expected, but he gave you up all the same.”

“What did you do to him?” he asked.

“You should be more worried about what I’m going to do to _you_.”

“I have a right to live my life, Athena,” Angron growled.

Athena grabbed a fist full of his shirt, growing in height till she matched his own. Her breaths were coming out in hot puffs.

“You don’t,” she grunted. “Your mind, your body, your _soul_ are _mine,_ and _only mine_. Which is why no nymph in that camp will ever touch you again.”

Angron went cold inside. “How did you know about that?” he whispered.

Athena snarled. The world shift like he had spun too quickly, and then they were in a penthouse overlooking the New York skyline: black and grey decor, black and white tiled floor, a few plants, a tv mounted to the living room wall. Athena picked him up by his shirt and smashed him into the tiles. A moan turned into a wheeze when she put her foot on his sternum and _pressed_.

“You mean how did I know about _them_?” she hissed. “I was watching you, you stupid whore. Every. Single. **Time**!”

_...Oh fuck._

Athena fell upon him, straddling his waist. She traced a finger along his jawline. The intimacy of the action at odds with the hellish rage in her eyes. “I’m going to break you, Angron,” she whispered. A hand wrapped around his throat and squeezed. “And then... And then I’m going to put you back in that bed _where you_ _should have been_. And if you, if you ever let anyone touch what’s _mine_ again. It won’t end well for you.”

And then the beating started. Angron’s left ulna and radius were the first things to break, but then it was all breaking. His ribs, his right ulna, his left femur, his nose, his right eye socket, his left clavicle, breaking, breaking, breaking. He cried, he pleaded, and she just kept snarling.

Angron’s vision fell out of focus and he begged for the sweet release of death. The beating stopped. He could hear her ragged breathing above him. The son of war was in agony from his wounds: internal bleeding in multiple locations, punctured lungs, estimated time till death was fifteen seconds. Angron glared up at her with his sole functioning eye. He could make that work.

Angron forced his mouth to work and garbled, “...H- Hate you... Al-always h- have.”

Athena laughed, long, loud, and mocking. He knew she had never loved anything more than her own voice. Visual details were beyond him now. The world was a fading blur and she was just a weird smear of colors. It would not be long now.

“I’m surprised you can talk,” she crooned. “Do you really think I’d believe that? I know your feelings, Angron. How badly you _yearn_ for me. Drowning yourself in loose women to _hurt_ me because I won’t _submit_ to you. Don’t think you can.” –Wisdom made a choking sound like she had been punched in her throat– “What?”

Angron could not smile or feel his body anymore, but he laughed in his deteriorating mind. Three seconds.

“No! **No!** ” Athena screamed.

_Too late you, you..._


End file.
